


The Icarus to Your Certainty

by crushculture



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bucky Barnes Feels, Dark, Established Relationship, Everyone Needs A Hug, Hurt Steve Rogers, Infinity War never happened, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Bucky Barnes, Running Away, Steve Needs a Hug, Two Broken Super Soldiers, White Wolf Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-04-06 20:28:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19070086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crushculture/pseuds/crushculture
Summary: "Than we leave. We go in the night, they'll never know." Let this be enough, he thinks.Let me be enough.





	1. Sunlight, Sunlight, Sunlight

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little taste of what's to come. I'm still in the biggest endgame denial, so let's go back in time and pretend everything is all good after civil war. I try to update as often as possible but I'm so harsh on my own work it takes forever to write lol! All comments, kudos, and bookmarks are so welcome! 
> 
> Title: Sunlight by Hozier

A relentless buzzing is under Steve's skin. Not the buzzing of a kiss or the sting of a punch, but the unique buzzing made by 70 years of unrelenting, constant, exhaustion. It's engraved in deep red and jaded white, only numbed when adrenaline becomes his blood and fight becomes his entire being. He took it with him to the ice, Bucky thinks. Bucky remembers feeling it in a little tent of the border of some ruined town in a part of the world ravaged by war and immeasurable loss. He wishes to take it out, rip the scars of the lily-white canvas. Make Steve undone and take him down until he is nothing but a soul. Rip out the weary thew and bones and replace them with his own. He's damn tired too, but maybe all Steve needs is a familiar feeling under his new skin.

He wishes to have noticed it earlier when Steve was spiraling further, and pull him out of his own head. He wishes to kiss his eyes and make Steve not feel anything but Bucky's own worn, but oh-so-familiar soul, if just for a brief, fleeting moment. _Let's not feel our age, Stevie,_ he had said, hoping those words carried more underneath them. By some miracle, Steve would forget those years in the ice and let himself be lost in the expanse of everything Bucky. The feeling of his lips, the scent of his skin, the memory of a Brooklyn long ago when he was 95 pounds, but oh, were they happy. But that never worked, because this wasn't just something a quick kiss would fix. This was nightmares so dark, Steve refused to talk about because if he started, they would never stop. This was a thousand-yard stare that never belonged to be on a face like that or taint a soul that good. Steve had fought wars with nothing but his lack of self-preservation and a piece of metal, painted to represent something he didn't think he believed in any longer. And that ruined head was the aftermath.

Steve feels different in his arms. Not unfamiliar in his entirety, but different enough to be proof. Proof that the ice wasn't kind, that those battles he runs into head first every goddamn day, we're taking the Steve he knew, and pulling him apart. Beating at his skin until it splits, then burrowing deep in the bones, broken too many times. He can see it in the worried lines of Steve's face, even when he sleeps. In his once bright blue eyes that now carry a dull, glazed over steel. He sees it in the way Steve carries his body. Not like he was leading his men into battle anymore but like he went to battle and watched his men die with his name on their lips.

They lay in their bed, soft but not too soft, with Bucky's arms around Steve. Steve's breaths blow hot against Bucky's collarbones while his hand is tangled in the soft material of Bucky's gray sweatshirt. He lets his blunt, bitten nails scratch at Steve's scalp, then moves down behind his ear where that small, insignificant little scar sits. They were climbing trees when a particular little twig scratched his skin. It was nice to know that despite that happening 80 years ago, some things about him will never change. Steve's lips are pale pink with little cracks full of dried blood. Bucky is lost in the paleness to notice the hitching breath that crosses them.

Steve is out of bed before the scream even crosses his lips, the picture on their dresser falling off as he throws himself at it. Like Bucky's arms were chains and he's the prisoner who was just charged a life sentence. Bucky's feet hit the wooden floor right as Steve drops to his knees, blood flowing from them as the sound of shattering glass fills the room. Bucky knows that Steve's eyes are filled with tears and his voice is going to be trembling and thick before he even turns the lamp on.

"Steve," he can see that their picture is crushed and bloodstained, but he is not going to dwell on it. "Steve."

He walks towards him, slowly but making enough noise so Steve knows he's coming. He feels hopeless. Useless. There is nothing he can do but watch as he falls apart, unable to help him keep the pieces together. He wonders if this is what Steve felt like, with Peggy. Watching somebody so strong they used to move mountains, just to fall apart at the seams, betrayed by their own mind and memories. It's not the same, he knows. Peggy lived her life the way she wanted and created a legacy most people could never dream of carrying themselves.

But here is Steve, 30 years old and haunted by the life he never really chose to live.

He gets closer and Steve finally looks up. He looks up at Bucky with tears down his cheeks that slip down further and grab onto the collar of his shirt. He sits then pulls his sleeve over his hand and presses it to Steve's bloody knee.

"What happened, Steve?"

"I just... I can't do this. Not anymore," He's pleading. Not saying, not demanding. Pleading to him or God or whatever is out there to just stop hurting him, the most selfish thing he has ever done. Begging anything to just stop hurting. And Bucky pleads with him. He prays every night to a God he doesn't believe in, because if there was a God, no man would have gone through what they both did. But he will keep pleading and praying every night if there is a chance in hell that someone is listening. If there is a remote chance that someone will help Bucky, then he will pray every damn day for the rest of his sad little life.

"I know more than you can imagine. But I don't know how I'm going to help you. Tell me. Tell me what to do, God. I'll do whatever you tell me to, Stevie, because I can't do this either."

It's harder than he thought it would be. He knew at one point that something like this would happen, one day it would be too much. One day, this, all this fighting and leading, this false confidence and self-assured bravado would pull down the mask that Steve has so expertly crafted. It was a beautiful mask, crafted by the hands of an artist, not only practiced in paints but in wiping away blood from his mouth before it was noticed. Now the mask is broken, the binding that held his entire being was too worn to continue. It hurts more than he thought it would.

"This....this isn't living. Take me away from all of this. Bucky, if you love me at all, pull me out of this hell."

He's reached his limit. He was asked to fight for a world he didn't know, too fight without the thing that made his soul sing, without grey eyes and pale skin watching his six. Those connections, those battles with the Avengers were never enough, those movie nights and late night conversations were never enough to bring that same exciting passion back under his skin. That's what made fighting worth it. Bucky knew that because he felt it too. And for Steve to say he couldn't do it anymore, brought more understanding than he could ever imagine.

Their war was over. They could go home and just be. Whatever being was, that's what they needed. That's what Steve needed and Bucky was more than happy to give it to him.

"Than we leave. We go in the night, they'll never know." _Let this be enough_ , he thinks.

_Let me be enough._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this wasn’t really a proper chapter. just more of a prologue but hopefully updates will come soon and this will be a fulfilling story for you all:)


	2. My Arms Were Always Around You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One slight mention of suicide, but nothing too dark. Stay happy and safe.

"Stark, I need you to do something for me," Tony's back is to him, his hands working fast on something that looks vaguely like an arm for the half-built robot laying on its side. Everyone has ways of dealing with nightmares. Like Tony, who is productive in some way, even if it means working on a robot army, that will hopefully not turn into another Ultron situation.

"Barnes, why in God's name would I," He turns, taking in the sight of Steve Rogers, with puffy red eyes and a death grip on Bucky's metal arm, "Help you and Eeyore?" And Bucky is reminded so strongly of Howard that it feels like a vice grip around his throat.

"You remember that arm cover we were talking about? Something to cover the arm on undercover missions?"

"Yes, I do. You axed the idea the second I mentioned that you couldn't tattoo shit on it. Remember that?" The idea was simple, a flesh-colored sleeve adorned with freckles and scars that would slip over the metal, thus taking the startling appearance of a half robotic limbed assassin away. Bucky and Steve loved tattoos, Steve being the artist of the two was thrilled to find out that tattoos had become a normal part of any millennials quarter-life crisis. Needless to say, finding out that ink will not stay in their skin for more than 6 hours, was a disappointment. Bucky was a damn assassin with dozens of kills under his belt, and if he wanted to get a damn heart tattooed with a banner and 'Steve' tattooed on a synthetic sleeve, well, sue him.

The sleeve is a perfect way to blend into the crowd. No one notices you, nothing remarkable, nothing to stare at. If he wants to have enough of a shot of pulling this off, making this work, showing Steve what resting really feels like, then he needs that damn sleeve. He will tear this fucking thing off if it means that he can show Steve the world. Bring him the world and just take him away from this life that neither of them signed up for. No one told them fighting for their country would mean fear, nightmares, and separation so painful, a lifetime of cold ice is better than a life without each other.

He wants to see that smile again. The one made of pure sunshine and a hint of excitement. The one that made his eyes crinkle and his lips split because he was just so damn happy. He hasn't seen it since he came home to their apartment with tears on his collar and the word 'drafted' on his lips. He wants to see it again, wants to be the one to put it there and make it stay. Perhaps it's not lost in Brooklyn, rotting like the floorboards in their old apartment. Maybe it's just deep in there under the debris, waiting for the sun to come out. Bucky will give him the sun if that is what it takes to see that blasted smile, just one more time.

"Well, I need it. As soon as you can get it done. No tattoos, I promise," He says and tries to give Stark the charming grin he hasn't pulled since the expo in Brooklyn. It must not work too well, because instead of Stark's twisted panties falling on the lab floor, he gets a quirked eyebrow and an embarrassing pink tint added to his own ears.

"Why do you even need it? It's 4 a.m on Tuesday night. Unless we got Norman Bates making more Norma costumes, there is no reason you two should even be up here interrupting my incredibly important work."

He sets Steve carefully on the stool next to a plate of half-eaten blueberries and empty coffee mugs. His eyes, red and puffy stare emptily in Tony's vague direction. Bucky can see that it's shaken Stark, seeing ever-strong Cap clutching his arm like a toddler holding a teddy bear after being woken up by monsters in his closet. Instead of imaginary monsters in a closet, it's suffocating dreams made of twisted memories.

His knees pop when he kneels, making him eye level with Steve. His arm held tighter when Steve suspects its near absence, "Let go, Steve. Just for a minute. Just gotta talk to Stark, that's all. I'll never leave your sight, promise," And his heart breaks, just a little when Steve clutches tighter, then drops the arm as if it burned him.

Tony, reasonably, tries to tear his arm out of his startling grip but stops when he hears the despair in Bucky's voice, "I need your help. Please."

"I need that sleeve. Do it for him. Not me," He says, voice cracking. God, he is so desperate. Tony has always had a soft spot for Steve. After the whole 'I'm sorry he killed your parents, but he is the better half of me, and I can't let you hurt him', tensions were high, but Steve's long, mind-numbing talks proved no match to the secret softie that was Tony Stark.

"I know, I ain't got any right asking for your help. I'm sorry, Tony. I really am," Tony tends to forget that Howard was more than a friend, a brother really. Once you fight alongside someone and see their darkest hour and they see yours, you are no longer soldiers. You are brothers until the day you die, and to be the hand that felt Howard's last breaths hurt more than Tony could ever know. But this was Steve. And if Tony cannot overlook this, then it reveals more about his character than Bucky ever thought.

"Don't get all weepy on me, Inspector Gadget. Why do you even need it? How is that going to help him in the least bit?"

"We are leaving. Soonest we can. I'm taking him away from all this goddamn mess because if he stays here for one more second, I don't think we'll ever get him back," He follows Tony around the small work table, "I'll leave you out of it, we will leave and you won't have to see us again. But you know just as well as I do that we won't make it out of New York with this."

The look Tony gives him is one that would scare anyone that didn't grow up with a 5-foot-nothing blond, "You think running away is going to help him? What qualifications do you have, huh?" He jabs his finger into Bucky's chest, tilting his head to look into his eyes, "What, did they wipe you 'til you were nothing but a slobbering mess just to fill you with the mindset of an under-qualified shrink? Christ, Barnes, you're stupider than you look."

"I'm taking him because if he stays here, fights one more pointless battle, I think he's gonna put a goddamn bullet in his skull. If playing therapist means I stop that from happening, then let me fucking do it."

Tony steps back and knocks himself back into the work table, sending the strangely detached robot limb to the ground with a crash.

"What?"

"He told me, he fucking told me, that he can't do this anymore. Have you ever seen him give up before?" Tony shakes his head, "I didn't think so. And neither have I. I don't, I don't know what will happen if he does. He told me, that if I loved him at all, I would take him away from this all. So that's what I'm doing."

"What's wrong with him? I mean, what happened?" Bucky can't give him an answer, because he doesn't know either.

"I don't know. I don't fucking know. But I know that I owe him this much. Let me help him, get him away from all of this. Let him just rest. Do you remember how long he had been awake before The Battle of New York?" He shakes his head again, "Two weeks. To him, he just watched me plummet to the bottom of a ravine. Then he was fighting fucking aliens and hasn't stopped. He's been fighting, nonstop. No time to regroup or heal, or rest. And it's hitting him all now."

"And you think taking him away from us will help?"

"Not away from you. From the fight," Who knows if this will work, for all he knows, it could make everything worse. But this is the first time Steve has ever, ever asked for something that will benefit him and not the world around him. And that in and of itself speaks volumes.

"You guys would lose this," He gestures to the room, "The rest of them, they would never stop until they found him. Is it really worth the constant threat of your ruined paradise?"

"He is worth everything."

Tony blinks and lets out a heavy sigh. He's got a bittersweet look on his face and it fills Bucky with a glimmer of hope.

"Give me 6 hours."

* * *

 

Bucky is packing them clothes, enough to last them a bit, but not enough to make a sizable hole in their wardrobe. Packing what has been their life in two black duffle bags. He saves bare necessities until the last possible second, not wanting to inconvenience themselves even more. They'll leave at dawn, around 16 hours from now.

"Where do you wanna go, Stevie?"

"I don't know. I've always loved the rain," He looks tired, just like always after nightmares. But a little relieved as well. Like the world just lessened its hold on him, even if just by a fraction.

"The Northwest?" Steve doesn't respond.

"A lakeside cabin maybe. A quiet place where the old ladies make sure everyone knows their cookies are the best in town?"

"Sure, Buck. That sounds really nice," He gives a sad little smile. Hardly there, not noticeable if you weren't looking for it. It's the best sight Bucky's seen in a while.

Bucky puts the last of Steve's clothes in the duffle and walks to the foot of the bed where Steve is sitting. He gets down on his knees, elbows resting on Steve's thighs and his flesh hand finding purchase in blond hair. The other gently touches his chin, meeting his eyes.

"Hey, you," Bucky gives him a small smile, to comfort more than anything.

"Hi, Buck," He smiles back, empty, but he's trying.

"Let's try to sleep, yeah? Just a bit more," He rubs his fingers on the soft tuffs of Steve's hair, "We have lots to do, and all the time in the world to do it. So, let's take this brief stint of time, and sleep before we cram into a car and get creeks in our backs."

"I could sleep, just for a little bit."

"I know you could, pal."

They crawl back into bed, Bucky holding Steve. The bumps of his spine being counted and traced, his scalp being scratched, words whispered. Small, insignificant words whispered into the room around them with the sun casting a pale light through the window. The soundtrack of honking car horns plays as it does every day, without fail. The world could be ending, but cars would still honk and Steve would still be wrapped in his arms.

Bucky knows now, that even if Hell freezes over - if the rain never stops falling - if the Earth cracks into two, they would be fine because they are together.

They are going to be just fine.

* * *

 

They leave with their bags in hand, the sleeve on Bucky's left arm, and a letter addressed to Sam taped to the red, white, and blue symbol of exhausted ideas.

Tony asked them to be careful and promised he wouldn't say a word. He won't aid in the search the find them, but will always be a phone call away if something goes wrong, a reliable presence. He promised to just let them go, heal. If anyone felt what Steve was feeling, that bone-deep, soul-crushing weight of the world, the sheer exhaustion of fighting constant battles with no semblance of rest, it would be Tony. Maybe they weren't fighting the same war anymore, they never were, but war is war. Whatever it is, it takes the fight out of any soldier, no matter how strong or how fast he is. It strips you down until you are nothing but the dirt that gets in your mouth and collects fallen blood.

"Take care of him. For us, even if we didn't know he needed taking care of," Tony had said pulling his body away from Bucky's own. It hurt, to hear him say it. There was no way to notice, not if you didn't know Steve. And despite what they all thought, the Avengers, Steve was nothing but a shell of the man he had been before he hit the ice. They had nothing to go off, no reason to think that maybe this all wasn't as okay as they thought it was. But Bucky had noticed, the second he got his arms around Steve's waist that something was so, so wrong.

He knew when Steve's hands twisted themselves in the hem of his shirt, how his lungs hitched and he sobbed 'Bucky, oh. Oh, God.'

Bucky could only hope that this would help him. Giving him a normal life full of mundane, but so exciting things would pull the past 70 years out of his tired body. Giving Steve the life they were never able to quite have in Brooklyn. But he would do anything to get that happiness back, even if it was weighted down by hospital bills, overdue rent, and the constant threat that someone was going to hear them, see them, know what they shared was so much more than a brotherly bond.

"You couldn't have known, Stark. You didn't know what to look for, you don't know him as I do. I'll take him from here," Bucky couldn't be mad because it was true. They did not know anything was wrong because they didn't have a reason to think anything was. They had no bases of what was Steve and what wasn't. All of this, these nightmares, tears, shell shocked ears, empty eyes, was not Steve. Not his Steve. This one was a worn, tired shell of the brightest soul he has ever known. And he missed the brilliance of it, every day, more than he had missed it when it was the only thing keeping him from losing it all on that table. Strapped down and beaten until he couldn't remember anything but that brightness and the name Steve.

"Go, before they notice you're gone. Because they won't stop. Haul ass before Romanov stops your little journey before it starts," He was going to miss Natasha, her fox-like grace and sharp as a tack mind, but it was so worth it. Just to get a chance at fixing this all.

"He will miss you guys," He had said, "But, he's putting himself first. For once at least. And I'm not going to put a stop to it."

"Go. They'll understand eventually, once they realize you left because you needed to."

So they left, packed into a too-small car, with ideas of the life they will lead, once they get to wherever they decide is a good place to stop.

Bucky is excited to see where that is.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 


End file.
